


Take On Me

by turnedherbrain



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Humor, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 05:32:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19125601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnedherbrain/pseuds/turnedherbrain
Summary: Missing scene from the TV series. Crowley and Aziraphale meet in London in 1984.





	Take On Me

**Author's Note:**

> Imagine that the song [‘Take On Me’](https://youtu.be/djV11Xbc914) by A-ha is playing in the background throughout.

Soho, London. We travel down into the depths of a subterranean nightclub at the latter end of 1984, the clock creeping round to past midnight. The only incongruous aspects of this scene are the elegant vintage motorcar parked at a devilish angle on the pavement outside, and the fact that the club cloakroom is currently guarding an enamel-topped, pure white umbrella.

Everything else shouts 1984 though, from the hairstyles, to the clothes, to the music. And as if on cue, the club starts moving to the sound of ‘Take On Me’, people spilling from the bar area onto the dancefloor to gyrate madly as soon as they hear the drumbeats and cheerfully synthesised opening notes. The only two people not following the crowds onto the floor are left conspicuously by the mirrored bar, their reflections on every surface looking preoccupied.

…

‘Why here, though? Why are we meeting _here_?’ asks one man, bouffant hair curly and blond; blonder under the unnaturally bright lights. ‘Why not the park? Or my bookshop? Or the Ritz, even? They do a _very nice_ prawn cocktail, and…’ he prattles.

‘Hassss-tur,’ hisses his companion, hair glinting in instant aggravation at the mention of this name. ‘Has-tur. I’ve heard word that he’s hereabouts,’ illustrated by a twirl of his straw in the blood-red liquid of his drink. ‘So I’ve come below – ’ a sweeping gesture around the human forms packing out the underground club ‘to scope for nasties. Isn’t it to your liking?’

Aziraphale wrinkles his nose in more than slight revulsion. ‘You know very well it isn’t. Anything after Vivaldi is a step too far for me. Although this man does have an exceedingly pleasant voice. What’s his name?’

‘The one singing right now? Norton Market? No – Morton Parkit? Morten Harket; that’s it. You know me though: Queen. Queen… and Vivaldi, of course!’ Crowley rapidly clears his throat, realising all the times he’s charmed his friend into listening to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ under false pretences.

Aziraphale looks heavenwards, his face illuminated under the stark neon of the club lights, and is silent for some moments.

‘What are you doing?’ asks Crowley, alternating between mildly irritated and intrigued.

‘Ummm, logging some morale points for our Mr Harket. For being an angelic singer,’ blushes Aziraphale, wondering simultaneously if he’s got the beginnings of a crush, and how human he’s become.

‘Bloody _hell_ ,’ sighs Crowley in exasperation.

‘Well… you’d know!’ replies Aziraphale pointedly, then seeing his counterpart’s mounting ire, decides to change the subject. ‘What’s that you’re drinking?’

‘’s a cocktail of my own invention. I call it: the Campari and soda. Disgusting taste, but I predict that millions of humans will drink it because it’s “trendy” and be absolutely fucking miserable in this ninth circle of hell we call earth. It’s second only to my achievements with seafood bars at airports and those horrendous energy gels people ‘drink’ when they’re running. All completely bloody ridiculous. I love it.’

To enhance his delight at stirring things beyond measure, Crowley grins a grin so tremendous, Aziraphale can’t help but join in and then immediately feels ashamed – for by delighting in his friend’s misdeeds, surely he is somehow partaking in evil? Not for the first time, he starts to wonder if he is becoming more than soiled through association. But then he regards himself in the mirror behind the bar and thinks that perhaps, he is looking finer than he has done in decades – since at least the 1920s, which was his favourite era of this century so far.

He is wearing a white blouson shirt, frilled at the neck, silver piping around the edges giving off a heavenly gleam. The sleeves are loose but gathered at the wrists. The waistcoat – _yes, there is a waistcoat! Oh my goodness to Gabriel, yes!_ – is a deep plum velvet. The whole look is known, in human parlance, as ‘New Romantic’. And Aziraphale feels romantic indeed.

‘What in Hell’s name are you wearing?’ Crowley had asked him when they’d met up. Never mind. The boy – Aziraphale still thought of him as a boy, even though, give or take a microsecond of a millennia, they were roughly the same age – didn’t know fashion as he did. I mean: look at him. Crowley was still holding on to the seventies, with his rough shorn haircut between shoulder- and ear- length like it couldn’t decide where to be. His jacket was still that indiscriminate dark colour and shape that Crowley favoured, so he could merge into any time and place. Yet he still stood out; he couldn’t help it – the lick of flaming hair on top of his head; the never-seen-the-sun complexion; the devil-made-me-not-care stance, the shades that begged people to look his way.

And Aziraphale cares about _all of it_. He might be damned for doing so, but so help him God: he cares. If Hastur appears tonight and turns all of his wrath upon Crowley, Aziraphale will be there to defend his one true friend. Not just tonight. Always.

And Crowley? What did Crowley really think, inside that inscrutable head of his? He had meant what he said about that frilly shirt. Well, he hadn’t wanted to demean Aziraphale’s dress sense. Or _had_ he? But there was something amiss between the root of his tongue and the roof of his mouth, between the syllables as they formed and when the words left his lips. He always meant to compliment Aziraphale. He did. He really, really did. Honest to Go- … somebody. But it came out wrong. He blamed the not-so-Almighty. He had to blame Him. He could hardly blame the Devil now, could he?

Yet he was charmed by the way his friend blushed pinkly each and every time the demon did one teeny tiny inkling of a good deed, like he was turned to strawberries and cream by the idea that one day – one day – they might even be on the same side. Blasted chance. Heaven and hell mixing? Fire turning to cinders; purity sullied by soot. It wouldn’t work. Although... it _does_ work. It _is_ working.

…

Watch them now – one lolling, pretending like he’s not on constant lookout; the other covertly on tender guard. Watch them as the music plays:

_Take on me_

_Take me on…_


End file.
